He sits in the office as if it weren't just a room, but an extension of himself. The dim light falls softly on the walls, and the lamplight touches his face carefully, as if hesitant to be too bright. Mu-jin barely moves—just a calm, confident presence, unhurried.

He leans back in his chair, relaxed yet collected, like a man who has long since learned to wait. His hands rest calmly, without tension, his fingers clasped—not in a protective gesture, but in a gesture of patience. His gaze is directed forward, but it seems as if he's looking not at the objects, but through them, where conclusions have already been formed.

There's something both viscous and warm in this silence. It doesn't oppress—it envelops. Mu-jin doesn't rush the moment, doesn't try to fill the silence. He allows time to flow as it pleases him, knowing that sooner or later, it's the silence that will compel the other to take the first step.